


Keep Safe My Love

by Phoenixflames12



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Cornish Uprising, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Fluff, Perkin Warbeck Rebellion, The Wars of the Roses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4846523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'I heard a scream from afar and whispered the only name that came from my lips.'</p><p>September 1496</p><p>Elizabeth of York waits in the sanctuary of Westminster Abbey with her children for her beloved husband's return from fighting Perkin Warbeck's rebellion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Safe My Love

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this wonderful tumblr post: http://phoenixflames12.tumblr.com/post/129300775459/marthajefferson-she-feared-the-worst-that
> 
> Much love and enjoy x

Keep Safe My Love

_September 1496_

_Westminster Abbey Sanctuary_

 

‘ _I heard a scream for afar and whispered the only name that came to my lips’_

She hears the scream before she fully understands that she’s dreaming. It seems to echo through her, cutting the fragile threads of sleep with such ease that she’s surprised that she had even slept at all.

 

Beside her, little Mary, pressed up beside her under one of the many rugs that she has begged from the Abbot, stirs, her pale eyelashes flickering faintly before she succumbs once more to Morpheus’ enticing darkness. A chubby hand reaches blindly in the darkness, desperate for the comfort of her mothers’ touch and Elizabeth responds gladly; curling her fingers around the soft, loose skin, wishing she will never have to let her youngest go.

 

For a moment, she sits there in the dark, feeling the weight of her hair tumbling through its’ sleeping braid around her shoulder, the prickle of cold creeping under her skin.

 

Across the tiny chamber, Arthur mutters in his sleep and she begins to realise that this real; this strange, half world that she had hoped she would never have to return to after all those months of imprisonment when she was five and then eighteen; has become her reality.

 

In her heart, she fears the worst. In the darkest moments of the night, when all was so eerily quiet that not even the ravens rasped out their harsh chorus; her body become consumed by silent, paralysing fears that she could never give voice to, could never hope to articulate in front of her children, even to herself.

 

She saw Henry, her beloved Henry with his hooded grey eyes and thin, darkly handsome face; crippled, his face twisted with an eternal pain that even she would not be able to ease. She sees him lying in the mud-clogged fields of Cornwall, his body past the point of mortal repair, only his spirit flying back to her. In her minds’ eye she sees the battlefield, sees a rain washed wasteland; the air heavy with the metallic stink of blood and the cries of dying men circled by the carrion crows. She sees spears dripping with rusted scarlet, sees the twin roses of Lancaster and York stained rusted copper with the blood of the Welsh exile who had fought so hard to unite them.

 

What would she tell the children?

 

What could she tell the children?

 

Tell them that their father; their beloved father who adored each and every one of them with all his heart had left the mortal world for good? How could she tell Arthur; their beloved first born, that he was now King of England by Grace of God? In her minds’ eye Arthur seems to stands before her; all of ten years old and yet… And yet with his tall, slender body and hopeful, trusting, grey eyes; he often seemed so much younger.

 

Sleep was impossible now.

 

The flagstone floor sends shivers up her feet as she slowly begins to pick her way towards the prie deiu, nestled under the window. Even the whistle of the wind bringing in the first crisp hints of autumn make her heart flutter with fear as she slips around the tangle of blankets shared by her sons. A sliver of moonlight catches their sleeping profiles, the silver light dancing into the shadows as she stops, drawn to their bodies curled up like puppies for warmth.

 

Restlessness stirs in her gut like a fire, a restless, fierce, protective urge to love them and never, ever let them go, not even to send Arthur back to Ludlow.

For a moment, her hand gropes her the dagger that Henry had given her; tucked deep within the folds of her nightgown.

 

‘ _My love,’_ he had whispered in the soft, pre-dawn light; his calloused hands stroking her face, cupping her chin in his palm, grey eyes filled with a pain that she does not fully understand. ‘ _I…’_ She had waited, her heart beating somewhere in her throat; her mind whirring as he had cast a glance to the door, his fingers still tracing the lines of her jaw.

 

‘ _My love, my one, true love’,_ he had tried again; but still panic gripped her, still she could not stop herself from fearing the worse as he had reached behind the bed and held out a sheath of black velvet embroidered with the welsh dragon of his homeland.

 

‘Henry…’ The dagger is perfectly balanced, as it lay still and harmless in her outstretched palms.

 

‘ _Elizabeth… Lizzie…’_ The use of her childhood name had brought tears to her eyes and memories of her father; her beloved, sun kissed father to her mind as rough lips brushed her skin in a soft, chaste kiss.

 

‘ _You must take this, my love. Keep it with you and, my love, if… If I don’t…’_

She could not bear to hear any more. She could not bear his talk of death, of Arthur succeeding him when he was only ten and too young, much too young to even consider walking in his fathers’ shoes.

 

‘ _You will.’_ She had murmured; her voice lost against his skin; her body pressing close to his; soaking in the reassuring music of his heart against her cheek.

 

‘ _You will come back my love, you must. For my sake… For the children’s sake, for all of us… You will return my love, I know it’._

The crunch of boots on gravel makes her jump, snapping her out of her reverie like a sword thrust. Guards… Guards like the ones who had been sanctioned to watch over her brothers, her brothers who had vanished like the morning mist and had never been seen again.

 

No. She must not think of that.

 

But guards could be bribed and she has no idea who could be watching them, even now; safe in the Tower; this impenetrable fortress that has stood since the days of the first Norman King. Guards who were not even six feet away, could be slipped a coin, whispered a promise… Instinctively she glances back into the shadows, eyes raking over Arthur and Henry, over Margaret and Mary, over the shimmering gilt cross that glitters in the flickering moonlight.

 

‘Mother?’ She does not feel the small, hot hand creep up to grip hers.

 

‘Mother, when will Father be home?’

 

It is Henry, Henry with his shock of golden hair so much like her own and her fathers’. Henry who worships the ground that his own father walks on and vows nightly in his prayers to be just like him; should he ever become King. She feels his body press against hers, her arm curling around his shoulder, pulling him close.

 

She cannot answer that. She is not like her Mother, has not been gifted with the blessed curse of the second sight, can only imagine what is happening far away on the Cornish marshes.

 

‘Mother?’ Sleep filled eyes that are brimming with undiluted trust gaze up at her and she can only shake her head and press a kiss to his hair, a kiss seasoned by the salt of her unshed tears.

 

‘I don’t know my dear’, she says at last, her voice low as to not wake the other children. ‘I don’t know, but I do know that he will not want us to worry,’ she tries to smile at that, but it feels forced and wrong, grating against her lips.

 

_But he must come home. He promised he would. He has to; but oh my dear, it has been far too long!_

‘Soon, though?’ The small, trembling body that is already filled with such rippling energy presses against hers and instinctively her hand reaches down to grip his shoulder, pulling him close.

 

‘Yes… Yes, my sweet’, she says at last, her eyes on the slowly lighting window. The words feel almost like a prayer, a promise to her beloved so very far away.

 

‘He will come home. He will come home triumphant and we will be safe.’

 

‘Will we?’ Arthur’s voice is still thick with sleep as he pads across the floor to join them, grey eyes blinking under the coverlet wrapped around his frame like a cloak.

 

‘Yes, my dear’, instinctively her gaze rakes back to the body of the room and to the sleeping forms of her daughters as together they watched the thick morning mist begin its’ endless journey over the London streets.

 

+++++

 

The next few days pass in a blur of shadowed darkness. The children are quiet, the sanctuary walls echoing in the silence as Elizabeth tries not think about what might have happened to the royal forces.

News floats in fragmented pieces through the walls of the sanctuary; brought by hurried scribbled missives delivered by messengers whose bodies shook with exhaustion as they stepped into the shadowed rooms that have become her whole world.

Arthur and Henry make themselves present when the messengers come; standing tall and proud despite their fear, men in boys’ bodies as they place themselves at either side of her, absorbing the news with eyes hard of all emotion. Margaret is still unsure of them; but slowly overcomes her fear; dark eyes peeping out from under her stained mob-cap.

 

_‘And Father? Will he be back soon?’_

 

It is the only question that she cannot bring herself to answer, cannot bring herself to name an end to this hopeless uncertainty unless she cannot end it, unless it never ends and that all that they have worked for, bled for, died for has come to nothing.

+++++

 

‘Your Grace! The Royal troops crushed the rebellion. They defeated and captured the Pretender!’

 

She barely hears the rest of the missive; turning back into the darkness of the Jerusalem Chamber, where her brother had been born, where she had watched so many lives and hopes rise and fall from the eyes of an innocent.

 

‘What…What did you say?’

 

The words feel rough against her tongue as she turns; her hands reaching desperately to hold something should she fall.

 

The messenger looks at her appraisingly; dark eyes aching with exhaustion, as if she is a child or a simpleton and not a woman in her thirties who has lived through rebellions, who has watched her father and her uncle struggle against the constant threat of pretenders, of whispers turned rumours, of the constant ebb and flow of the people’s discontent.

 

‘The Royal troops, Your Grace. They have defeated the rebels. His King’s Grace will be returning shortly.’

 

She nods slowly and with a tremendous effort, motions that he is dismissed; head whirring with the news.

 

_The rebel troops had been defeated._

_The pretender’s forces had been crushed._

_They were safe._

_They were safe and Henry… Her Henry was coming home victorious; her Henry was returning to her and they would be able to leave this shadowed half darkness and return, blinking, into the light of the court and safety._

‘Mother? Mother, what is it?’ Arthur and Henry are at her side in an instant with Margaret following close behind with Mary; their eyes wide with curiosity at the prospect of news.

 

‘Your father…’ She stops, swallows; breath flooding back into her lungs in gulps as she tries to regain control over her whirring body. ‘The King, the King is safe.’ She can feel tears in her eyes as the words are said aloud, tears that prick and burn with fires of stinging salt as she feels Henry’s hand tentatively reach down to grip hers.

 

The ice blue eyes that have been so shadowed since their escape into sanctuary are softening now and her heart lifts to see it as the small hand squeezes her own in a tentative act of reassurance. On her other side, Margaret presses in close and she rests her other hand on her eldest daughter’s shoulder, drawing her into the silent embrace.

 

Henry is coming home.

 

England has a King once more; an undisputed, anointed King and they were safe. Safe under a united country, safe in a land where there was no more needless, senseless violence, a land where brother was reunited with brother and did not need to feel the need to kill his kin because of the twisted thread of loyalty.

 

The knowledge brings sudden tears to her eyes as she moves towards the heap of coverlets and pelts that served as her bed; still unable to believe it.

 

All she can do now is wait.

 

Wait and hope and pray that he will understand her actions, will forgive her for fleeing into sanctuary, for protecting herself and their hopes, their beloved hopes for the future.

 

She sits and waits for what feels like an eternity. The children slip into the shadows, unsure what to do with this new mother. They have seen her as a lioness, fighting for her husband, fighting for her right to rule; seen her as a hound bitch, always ready to love and cherish them, soothing away any hurts with a soft word and a gentle touch; but never have they seen her this lost, this achingly heatsick for the man whom she has given her heart to and whom cannot be replaced.

 

The crunch of hobnailed boots against the flagstone floor of the nave sends her heart scrabbling into her chest, cold sweat prickling against her palms as the fingers of her right hand curl instinctively around the hilt of the dagger; slowly edging it out of its’ scabbard.

In the darkness, Margaret whimpers and through the glow of candlelight, even her beloved, foolhardy Henry looks pale.

 

‘It’s… It’s not the bad King; is it Mother? Not…’ Only Arthur can find his voice and even then, the words are shaken.

 

 

She cannot answer them.

 

Cannot bring herself to imagine that it may be assasins, it may be rebels from the Yorkist Pretender’s army; their blood up, desperate to kill the traitor who had deserted their house for the usurper Tudor and his Lancastrian kin.

 

The shadows of armed guards tramp into view, and she edges forward, the dagger outstretched, finally trusting herself to speak.

 

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

 

No answer.

 

Her breath is ragged in her lungs as closer and closer come the guards flanking a hooded figure whom she cannot make out; their chain mail throwing grotesque shadows against the torches.

 

‘Come any closer and I… I swear…’

 

‘Elizabeth?’

 

_No._

_Gods no._

_It couldn’t be. Not here, not now._

But the rough music of his voice, the Welsh lilt telling her that he is exhausted, still taunts her as she backs away, the knife shaking in her grip.

 

‘Lizzie… It’s… It’s me, my love.’

 

‘Henry?’

 

His name is barely a whisper to her lips as he moves into the light, his face drawn with exhaustion. His hooded eyes are bloodshot and the muck and mire of a hard day’s ride clings to him like a perfumed cloak. He is unsteady on his feet, she sees; only staying upright through sheer effort of will.

 

‘Henry… My love…’

 

She does not know who began the embrace. She can only feel the rough, warm presence of his chest pressed against hers, of the music of his heart sounding joyously alive to her ears.

 

‘It’s finally over, my love.’ The words are suddenly caught with sobs and before she can do anything, he is in her arms and they are staggering backwards, the sheer weight of his exhaustion almost sending her to the floor.

 

‘We are all safe now.’ He whispers into her hair, battle worn fingers catching themselves within her curls. ‘We are all safe…’

 

‘I know,’ she whispers; pulling him closer, wanting to do nothing more than to hold him and never let him go; not even for an instant as words she hardly hears fall into her mouth and she can only pray that they can and will remain true.

 

‘I know my love. ‘I… I never doubted you. I know.’

 

* * *

Fin

 

Based on this tumblr post: [Henry and Elizabeth- Perkin Warbeck AU](http://phoenixflames12.tumblr.com/post/129300775459/marthajefferson-she-feared-the-worst-that) 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to read and review!
> 
> Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
> 
> Much love and enjoy x


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